


Reality

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dreams vs. Reality, Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kogami wakes to fingers in his hair." Makishima gets dreamy in the morning and Kogami tethers him to reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Kogami wakes to fingers in his hair.

The touch is gentle; there’s nothing particularly startling about the contact, the friction as much soothing as it is distracting. From all Kogami can tell, it’s been going on for a while, maybe several minutes while the drag eased him to wakefulness, and it doesn’t pause when he stirs and shifts, the pale of the sheets around him sliding away as he moves. There’s a hum, a familiar soft purr of sound, and when he turns to look back over his shoulder Makishima is watching him, his eyes glowing gold in the faint light of morning outside the window and his fingers still whisper-soft against the back of Kogami’s neck.

“Morning,” Kogami offers, voice slow and hoarse on the fringes of sleep.

Makishima’s smile is slow, spreading out across his features like it’s bleeding out from the pleasure captured in his eyes.  _His_  voice is even as it is always is, composed and poetry-sweet as if he’s wide awake instead of drowsing in bed with his fingers trailing against Kogami’s shoulder.

“Good morning, Shinya.” His thumb slides in, presses against the twist of a knot at Kogami’s neck; Kogami groans a wordless noise of relief, lets the pillow under his head take his weight as Makishima’s touch eases the tension under his skin.

“Have you been awake long?” he asks, his sleep-dazed vision wandering from Makishima’s eyes to the soft of his mouth, against the tangle of long silver locks that catch and curl against the other’s pale shoulder to blend in with the white of the sheets.

“I’m not sure,” Makishima admits. His gaze wanders up, settles into Kogami’s hair; when his fingers follow the same path Kogami’s eyelids flutter, made heavy by the weight of pleasure across his scalp. “I’ve been thinking.”

This is a dangerous line of inquiry. Kogami knows this, knows enough about Makishima to know that he ought to change the subject, to dodge sideways from the crumbling cliff of sanity they’re on right now. But curiosity goes taut under his skin, presses itself against his throat, and when he opens his mouth it’s to say “What about?” instead of the safer choice of falling to silence.

Makishima’s smile is as dangerous as the question. Kogami can see it curling itself to satisfaction, pleasure at being asked falling into alignment with the hazy distraction in his eyes, and then he parts his lips and says, “I don’t think I’m real” with as perfect equanimity as if he were commenting on the weather.

Kogami takes a breath, swallows back the bark of disbelieving laughter that threatens his chest, because Makishima’s eyes are radiant with sincerity, his expression vague and distant like he’s seeing something past Kogami,  _through_  Kogami, like maybe he’s looking into another world or another universe beyond this current moment. It’s enough to give Kogami pause, and then enough to prickle concern down his spine, some suggestion of fear that Makishima might mean this statement literally and not figuratively, that he might  _believe_  it down in his blood where Kogami won’t be able to extract it.

Worst of all, this: that he might be  _right_.  
“You’re real,” Kogami declares, drawing out as much self-assured conviction as he can muster. “Are you saying I’m hallucinating you right now? Or am I not meant to be real either?”

“I don’t think I’m attached in the right way,” Makishima says, completely ignoring Kogami’s words as if the other hadn’t spoken at all. Kogami turns in to face him, props himself up on an elbow, but Makishima isn’t looking at his face anymore; he’s trailing his gaze down Kogami’s chest instead, fingers dragging in the wake of his vision like they’re a shadow of his attention. “If I move too fast I might come undone all at once.”

“Don’t be crazy,” Kogami says, as gently as he knows how. He reaches out, fits his fingers against the sharp edge of Makishima’s jaw, glides his thumb across the sweep of high cheekbone. Makishima’s eyelashes flutter, his mouth comes open; but then he takes a breath, turns his head in to press his lips to Kogami’s wrist, and goes on talking, that same slurring tone that makes him sound more than half-drugged on some dizzy substance.

“How do you know you’re you?” he asks, hand bracing at Kogami’s chest, palm pressing against the resistance of the other’s body. He’s blinking at the ceiling again, not seeing anything at all; Kogami can feel Makishima’s hand trembling, his touch as uncertain as his words. “How do you know you’re human?”

“I just know.” Kogami leans in closer, slides his hand away from Makishima’s mouth to bury into his hair instead. When he tips in Makishima’s eyes skid over his face instead, pick out the features of his expression as the other’s mouth drags into a smile as faint and lopsided as if he doesn’t realize Kogami is truly there. “Same way I know you are.”

“How do you know anything at all?” Makishima asks, eyes ostensibly fixed on Kogami’s but watching something behind him, focused on the turn of his thoughts inside his head instead of just the exterior show of them in his eyes. He licks his lips back to dampness, tilts his head like he’s considering. “How do you know everything isn’t a dream in the end?”

“Okay,” Kogami decides, “time to stop talking” and he leans in, lets his weight press in close to bear Makishima down to the bed. The sheet catches between them, pinned in place between their bodies, and Makishima makes a startled whine against Kogami’s skin before parting his lips to make an offering of his mouth. He’s warm on Kogami’s tongue, faintly sweet like the smell of far-off flowers or a half-forgotten perfume, until Kogami is so occupied with reaching for impossible identification that he forgets what he was doing and pulls away to kiss against Makishima’s throat instead of his lips.

Makishima takes a breath, an inhale long and dragging enough that Kogami can feel it thrum under his lips, and then he resumes speaking, more of that vague, distracted tone although the words are going hotter as Kogami shifts his weight down, replaces the catch of the sheets with the friction of skin on bare skin.

“There’s no way to know,” Makishima says while Kogami breathes in at his collarbone, trails his hand down to the other’s hip as he urges the unnecessary cover of the sheets aside. “This could be a figment of my imagination.”

“I’m real,” Kogami insists, coming in sideways to press his mouth to the very center of Makishima’s chest, just alongside the steady beat of his heart inside the fragile structure of his ribs. “I promise you, Shogo.”

“Ah,” Makishima allows, purring the sound like it doesn’t particularly matter. He’s warm to the touch, as bonelessly pliant as if this was his goal all along, but he’s not yet hard when Kogami pushes the sheets aside to bare him to the light, just pale skin and careless limbs like he’s something above physical satisfaction, something ethereal and inhuman wearing a borrowed form instead of his true one. “Maybe I’m your dream, then.” Kogami curls his fingers under Makishima’s knee, lifts and pushes the other’s leg wide, and Makishima lets him, turns the shadowy inside of his thigh into a smooth canvas for the dim morning light to catch into illumination.

“You’re not a dream either,” Kogami says, dipping his head in close. His lips fit against Makishima’s hip, mouth gusting warmth out against the catch of bone against thin-taut skin, and Makishima shivers, a thrum of reaction running through him before he opens his mouth to go on.

“How do you know?” Kogami slides sideways, breathes out against Makishima’s length; there’s a shift, a stir of heat in response to his exhale, but Makishima’s voice stays level even as he reaches out to trail his fingers whisper-gentle over Kogami’s hair. “Haven’t you had dreams you thought were real before?”

“Be quiet,” Kogami breathes, eases his hold off Makishima’s knee so he can raise his fingers to his mouth. “Just stop thinking for a while, Shogo.”

“Stop thinking,” Makishima echoes. Kogami can taste the warm of sleep on his fingers as he sucks them to wet, draws them free of his lips as he braces himself on an elbow. “Are you asking me to stop being human, Shinya?”

“This is human too,” Kogami says, watching Makishima’s hips cant up an inch as he trails his way down to the other’s entrance, lines up the press of one finger against the promise of heat and tension. “Just as much as thinking.”

“Oh?” Makishima’s breath catches as Kogami eases inside him, just an inch, careful and slow in consideration of the minimal lubrication. His knee opens wider, a flower unfolding a petal, his cock flushing into color and hardness as Kogami watches, but he’s still talking, his voice still dreamy-soft on words that make something deep in Kogami’s chest ache for want of an answer. “Do you think so?”

“You’re still talking,” Kogami observes, sliding his touch in deeper as Makishima’s back arches in response, his foot bracing against the slide of the sheets. “It’s too early for this.”

“But I’m still thinking about it,” Makishima says. Kogami presses inside him, drags friction at just the right angle, and Makishima’s voice breaks on a gasp, sound given over to a flutter of heat in his throat. “ _Ah_.”

“I’ll make you stop,” Kogami says, a promise instead of a threat, and draws his hand back, thrusts in again in a gentle slide of slick and heat. Makishima’s fingers press against his hair, dragging instead of clinging, and Kogami moves a little faster, dipping his touch in as far as he can reach as Makishima quivers against the bed like a struck bell. “Be quiet, Shogo.”

“Shinya,” Makishima says, his fingers curling into gentle fists on Kogami’s hair, his hips rocking up to meet the slide of the other’s touch. “You haven’t stopped me yet.”

“Mm.” Kogami draws his hand back, attempts a second finger; it’s a stretch, enough to tense the inside line of Makishima’s leg and draw the other’s body tight against his touch, but he moves slow, gentle as he wins pliancy from Makishima. A pale leg falls wide, the tug at his hair goes slack, and he’s sliding deeper, Makishima’s breathing catching harder the farther he goes. “And now?”

“Not yet,” Makishima says, sounding hazy, sounding detached, but Kogami isn’t sure if it’s the distraction of Kogami’s touch or the haze of Makishima’s own thoughts that is drawing that veil over the sound. “Do you wish you had?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Kogami draws back, slides his fingers in deeper; he angles his touch wider, watches the way Makishima arches off the bed and gasps a lungful of air at the movement. “I will.”

“I won’t make it easy on you.” Makishima is rocking up, now, his hips coming up in time with Kogami’s movements.

“Wouldn’t be any fun if you did.” Kogami is moving slow, falling into a rhythm no less steady for how gentle he has to be. The lack of proper lubrication forces him to a pace so slow it’s almost dreamlike, almost enough to feel unhurried in spite of how hard Makishima’s become, in spite of the distant ache of heat in his own cock, the tingle of friction every time he shifts against the sheets. It’s almost enough, he knows, can tell from the angle of his fingers and the shivers of reaction purring through Makishima’s throat, and it would be easy to stop for a moment, to reach for the bottle alongside the bed and ease his own movement, but there’s something pleasant about the enforced slowness, the care he has to take to keep his actions gentle and Makishima warm instead of tense. So he doesn’t, doesn’t move away even as he’s easing his fingers out and sliding up the bed to fit his hips between the open angle of Makishima’s knees, ducking in to press a kiss against the knife-edge sharp of Makishima’s jaw before he brings his hand to his mouth to lick against his palm.

“I think you must be a dream,” Makishima muses aloud as Kogami closes his fingers around himself, strokes up in an almost-slick drag of friction. He can feel it shudder down his spine, his cock drawing hot and tense under his touch as he spills a slick of precome over his fingers, but he doesn’t move again, pulls his hand away as fast as he settled it into place. Better to reach for Makishima’s hip, to tug him down against the sheets and tilt his hips up while Kogami presses forward, and as he lines himself up he’s ducking in closer, fitting his lips against Makishima’s throat in a lingering kiss. Makishima tips his head back, lets Kogami’s mouth press to his neck. When Makishima speaks Kogami can taste the sound on his tongue. “No one as perfect for me as you could exist in reality.”

“Why not?” Kogami asks. When he arches forward they slide together, a slow drag of heat that gasps past his lips and nearly stalls to stillness for a moment. Makishima is hot, burning from the inside out with invisible incandescence, the friction of them coming together sparking up Kogami’s spine and pooling heat into his veins. Kogami has to draw back, press in again with deliberate slowness, and while he’s working himself deeper Makishima is talking again, voice drawn liquid on his reaction.

“It’s not right,” and Kogami draws back again, tries another dragging push that strains against his thighs and arcs Makishima’s spine into accidental art. “We were made for destruction, you and I, not for warm mornings and--” Kogami rolls his hips, grinds himself in deep, and Makishima’s words fracture on lines of friction, his hands clinging to the dark of Kogami’s hair. “And--”

“And slow sex?” Kogami suggests, punctuating his words with a thrust to force the air from Makishima’s lungs and the coherency from his lips.

“Yes,” Makishima says, but it’s melting, Kogami isn’t sure if the sound is intended as agreement or a plea for more. He draws his hand away from Makishima’s hip to skim his touch over the other’s length, feels the purr of unvoiced reaction shake through Makishima’s throat.

“This is  _exactly_  what we were meant for,” he says, closing his fingers to tightness and dragging up as his hips rock back, ease into position for another friction-slow thrust. “Just because something isn’t tragic doesn’t make it less beautiful.”

“Shinya--” Makishima starts, and Kogami pushes into him, feels the tremor of sensation shiver up his spine as Makishima’s voice finally dies into a whimper of pure heat. Kogami lifts his head, then, shifts his weight up off the radiance of Makishima’s skin to look down at him instead, to see the way the gold in his eyes is darkening to liquid bronze, the way his attention is evaporating with each drag of Kogami’s fingers over him.

“Shogo,” Kogami says, and it comes out a purr, borne on the heat in his blood and the satisfaction forming itself low in his stomach. “Stop thinking.” When he moves Makishima’s eyelashes flutter, silver over gold, when he strokes over the other Makishima’s throat tightens itself into a whine of pleasure. He’s hot against Kogami’s fingers, flushed to resistance under the easy strokes Kogami takes; Kogami can feel the shudders of reaction running down Makishima’s spine, the involuntary tension that ripples through the other’s body to draw him tight around Kogami’s slow thrusts into him.

“This is real,” Kogami says, insists, voice dipping low and certain on the shadow of fire rising in his veins. Makishima’s hand slides from his hair down to his neck, his hold tightening into the edge of desperation; his eyes are open again but they’re out-of-focus, his gaze drifting onto something Kogami can’t see, something Kogami isn’t sure is even there. “Say it, Shogo, tell me this is real.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Makishima gasps as Kogami pushes deeper into him, tightens his hold as he strokes friction over the other. “ _Shinya_.”

“Shogo,” Kogami says, growling the vowels into intensity. “Shogo,  _look at me_.”

Silver eyelashes flutter, gold eyes focus. There’s a moment of hesitation, Kogami’s movement too much for Makishima to hold himself together; but then he shudders, blinks hard, and when he next opens his eyes he’s looking at Kogami, focus dragged deliberate across his gaze.

“This is real,” Kogami says to that gold, holding Makishima’s eyes as he thrusts forward, as he presses his thumb in against the hard-swollen head of Makishima’s cock. “You’re here, with me, right now.” Another stroke, enough to feel the way Makishima is flushing harder still, enough to see his mouth coming open on the edge of anticipation. “Tell me, Shogo.”

“Shinya,” Makishima chokes obediently, “this is real” and his focus gives way, his attention sliding up and back as his back arches, every muscle in his body drawing taut for a moment of shuddering, impossible heat. Kogami drags his hold up, presses in with the slow rhythm he has clung to, and Makishima trembles into satisfaction, tension giving way to long, convulsive shudders that Kogami can feel tightening against the whole length of him as Makishima comes over the pale of his bare chest. Heat is surging up Kogami’s spine, friction threatening him with the oncoming edge of pleasure, but he holds out while Makishima shakes himself to stillness, until the other’s breathing has eased to deep, deliberate lungfuls of air and his vision is clear but not yet back in focus. It’s only then, when Makishima’s fingers loosen in Kogami’s hair to slide affection across his back that Kogami lets his head dip down and lets his composure go and lets himself white-out into the overtaking electricity of his own orgasm. It comes in waves, slow and long and unavoidable, the overslow friction paying off now with trembling rushes of heat Kogami can feel through every inch of his body like he’s dying, like he’s drowning and can’t be bothered to reach for the surface.

He doesn’t think he’d mind, he thinks in the midst of the distant haze, to drown in Makishima’s heat like this. There are gentle fingers gliding across his shoulders, dragging friction across his skin as surely as he pressed it into Makishima, and whatever dreamy philosophy Makishima was indulging in is gone, died to silence in the gap between heat and satisfaction. There’s just quiet hanging hazy in the air, only the steady rhythm of Makishima’s warm-slurred breathing to fill the silence.

Kogami shuts his eyes and lets the peace of reality sweep over his senses.


End file.
